


Blood in the Water

by swiftishere



Series: MSA AU Bin [11]
Category: Mystery Skulls Animated
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M, Medical Guesstimating, Near Drowning, Rescue, Siren!Arthur (Mystery Skulls Animated), Whump, serious injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swiftishere/pseuds/swiftishere
Summary: Sirens are well-known predators of seafaring humans. They're vicious and powerful, with sharp teeth, strong claws, and a voice that can hypnotize you into going happily to your death.But when one of them saves Lewis's life, he still can't help but return the favor, no matter how bad an idea it might be.
Relationships: Arthur & Lewis (Mystery Skulls Animated), Arthur/Lewis (Mystery Skulls Animated), Lewis & Vivi (Mystery Skulls Animated)
Series: MSA AU Bin [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942603
Comments: 25
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

The storm hits Lewis fast – unnaturally fast, almost. One moment the skies are clear, the water is calm, and he’s checking the nets; the next, everything’s gone gray and the waves are beating against his tiny boat. 

He’s flung overboard before he even realizes what’s happening, and barely manages to grab onto a net and cling to it – but the water’s too fierce to pull himself back up, and he just gets beaten against the side a few times and is forced to let go. 

Once again, he’s pulled under abnormally fast, like there’s a current dragging him straight down. He blinks a few times, the water stinging his eyes, and then catches a glimpse of colorful shapes moving through the water, twisting around him. A sharp, laughing song fills his head. 

Oh, hell. Sirens. 

Every fisherman knows the basics about sirens. The predators of seafaring humans, with claws that carve wood like butter and teeth that can tear the flesh from your bones, the very sight of whom can paralyze a man and make him dive to his death without a second thought. A strong hull and loud singing can keep them at bay, but ending up in the water with one – let alone a full company – is a death sentence. 

He thinks about trying to swim away, but… the melody is so beautiful. Surely he couldn’t die to a sound that pretty, could he? 

Their hunting song is drowned out by a softer ringing in his ears, and then the ocean fades away. 

It’s cold down here. 

He adjusts to it slowly.

At some point he realizes he’s actually quite warm. 

Is this dying? Is he dead already? He was expecting it to hurt more, to be skewered and lashed and tied up. But he feels… peaceful. There’s something gritty on his back, but other than that… 

He forces his eyes open, and the first thing he sees is the beach – picturesque and calm, with warm yellow sands and a blue sky and the deep dark ocean washing easily over the shore. 

The restful feeling vanishes entirely when his eyes travel down and he realizes that the area right around him is stained with _way_ too much blood. 

His breath hitches, edging into panic – until he does a mental check and realizes that _he_ feels _fine_. He takes an experimental deep breath. His chest doesn’t hurt, he doesn’t feel any obstruction or the urge to cough. Aside from being soaking wet and entirely without his boat, and his shirt being torn in the middle, it’s like the storm never happened. 

So _why_ is there blood on his wrists and chest and the sand around him? 

It doesn’t take much more looking to find the answer. Between him and the ocean is a siren with a long orange tail. He seems semi-conscious, which is kind of surprising, given how _mauled_ he is. 

He’s visibly trembling, taking long, shuddering breaths. His tail is covered in scratches, some shallow and some cutting clean through the muscle, like many sets of claws had grabbed it at once. Near the tip, there’s a hole that looks like it goes all the way through, with rough edges and still oozing blood from its place lying on the sand. The human half isn’t much better – he can see three jagged cuts taken out of his side, and the arm he’s propped himself up on is so stained with smears of red he can’t actually tell if there’s a wound on it or not. Long orange-blond hair, the tips of it thick and red, hides his face. 

His head shifts, looking out to the sea, and then Lewis hears a song. 

It’s from too far away to be coming from the siren in front of him – and if he pushes himself up a little farther, he can see distant ribbons weaving in the ocean. A company of sirens, singing a warning as they approach. The music seems to sink into him, gripping his mind and making rational thought impossible. 

He needs to run before they get here, he can hear a laugh in the melody, cruel and teasing. But... he’s so _tired_ , he could just sit here forever… 

Then his siren responds – it’s not a song, more of a broken, rasped scream – and the spell suddenly snaps, making him flinch. 

The rest of the sirens pause as well. They stop singing, and now it sounds like they’re calling back. Still melodic, and with no words he can understand, but in an alien way he can make some tone out of it. It’s like they’re more amused than annoyed at whatever he said to them. But they don’t make another attempt to come near. Has this siren – _claimed_ him as prey? Did he fight them over it, is that why-? 

This siren turns again, rolling to properly face him, and Lewis sees his eyes. 

There’s something obviously _inhuman_ about them. The color’s too bright, too _sharp_ , but at the same time, they seem to pin his gaze. He can’t look away – for a moment, he can’t even breathe. He feels _trapped_ , but at the same time he doesn’t want to fight. Then the siren averts his gaze, shifting so he’s sort-of-but-not-quite looking at him, and Lewis shivers as the grip loosens. 

He takes a moment to look properly at the human half of the siren. There’s a deep gash in his chest, that looks like it might have cut through muscle and into something underneath, that he forces himself not to stare at. On his side are four long horizontal scratches that disappear around his back. He’s also missing an arm, but that doesn’t seem to have happened at the same time as everything else – there’s a set of cuts in his left shoulder near the collarbone, but underneath the blood he can see scars, and the shoulder itself isn’t openly bleeding. 

The siren raises the hand he does have slightly, keeping his elbow on the ground – it shakes with the loss of balance – and tries to gesture something, still carefully not looking him in the eye. He points at himself, and then slashes a hand through the air, _no_. When Lewis doesn’t respond, he does the same motion again, but this time in the middle is a movement like claws. 

“…you’re not going to attack me?” Well, no, obviously not. He probably couldn’t if he wanted to. 

He isn’t even sure if the siren understands what he said. His head drops again, and he folds his arm back to press into the gash in his stomach.

Another sharp note cuts through the air, pulling his attention away. The sirens in the distance have started up again. But this song isn't hypnotizing - it's sharp, grating on his ears. A threat - but not directed at him.

In front of him, the siren retches blood onto the sand. 

“They’re after you. They were attacking me and…” he’s starting to get an idea of what’s going on, and why he isn’t dead yet. The sirens in the distance flick their tails and weave around each other, creating an illusion that makes it impossible to tell if they’re slowly getting closer. 

Cautiously, he inches closer to the siren in front of him. He’s practically doubled over now, shoulders shaking. Lewis puts a hand on the one that isn’t injured, and he flinches back. 

“We need to get out of here.” 

The siren stares at him without responding, or giving any indication he understands. The hypnotic effect of his eyes seems a little weakened now - or maybe Lewis is just adjusting to it. He still feels half frozen, but not as thoroughly trapped as before. They stare at a moment, the siren half opening his mouth as if to say something, displaying sharp needle-like teeth. 

Then his eyes unfocus and he slumps forward, listing to the side. 

Lewis catches him almost without thinking. 

Okay, think. Even if he _was_ awake, there's no way he's getting off this beach without being carried, not with the siren company still in the water. And Lewis can't just _leave him here_ \- not after he saved him from the rest of them. And he probably doesn't have long before the company realize he's undefended and start singing again, and then they're _both_ screwed. 

So he makes up his mind and picks him up. 

The siren's pretty light, he realizes as he does. Which is fortunate, because his tail is still pretty hard to manage even with that. It ends up dragging awkwardly on the ground, and he mentally apologizes, but he doesn't have time to do better right now. 

It isn’t until he reaches the road when he stops to think about where he’s even _going_. 

* * *

He puts the siren in the bathroom when he gets home. Or, he drops him clumsily in the general area of the bathtub, fills it with water, and then goes searching for his medical supplies. 

He doesn't actually know that much about sirens, he realizes. 

Well, nobody does. They're the natural predators of humans, among other things. They're resilient as hell, which is good, because otherwise he'd probably have to deal with this one dying in his house. They can breathe both air and water, but dry out pretty fast in open air. But other than that… he doesn’t really know anything about how they work, beyond all the ways they can kill him. How fast do they heal on their own? What’s the most life-threatening danger here? Do they fight off infection naturally, or will he get sick if he’s not careful with him? 

What a lot of the wounds really need is stitches - at least, on a _human_ they would, but he's really hoping the "natural resilience" will extend to this, because again, these are _not_ optimal conditions. He does his best with what he’s confident enough to do, and what he has the space and materials for. 

The gash in his stomach is easily the worst, so he starts there. It looks like something sharp and jagged stabbed into him and then _ripped_. There’s definitely something deeper than muscle that’s been exposed, but with all the blood and the fact that he feels sick if he looks at it for too long, it’s hard to tell if it’s actually been cut _into_. Although the fact that he was throwing up blood earlier isn’t a great sign. 

He cleans it as gently as he can, with the detachable showerhead on the lowest possible setting. It still obviously hurts to do – the siren shifts in his sleep, with a rasped noise that comes close to a hiss. Pretty quickly he realizes that it’s still bleeding a _lot_ , and that that’s making it kind of hard to tell if it’s clean. It hasn’t been very long when he just judges it done and turns to pulling the skin closed and trying to bandage it. 

That’s when he encounters the next problem. Namely, that it’s going to be _very hard_ to keep something bandaged if it’s also submerged in water. 

There’s also no good way to elevate this particular wound. He can’t drain the tub – or, he _could_ , but what if he needs the water to heal? 

He ends up propping the human half up awkwardly to keep it out of the water, which doesn’t work _great_ , but it more or less keeps the bandages dry, so he’s counting it as a victory. 

The cuts on his shoulder and side aren't actually that bad, all things considered. They've already mostly stopped bleeding by the time he gets to them. Probably something about siren biology. 

He has _zero_ idea how to approach the tail. It’s the least familiar part of the siren, and it’s just hard to maneuver in general – it’s probably almost twice as long as he is, if it was stretched out all the way, and in the tight space the long loops become hard to parse. He deals with the hole near the tip first – he was fortunately wrong, it didn’t go _all_ the way through, but that doesn’t make it much better. It looks like it was caused by the same sort of weapon that cut his stomach. The muscle underneath the scales and skin has been torn into jagged pieces, and it’s still slowly dripping blood. 

The myriad of scratches decorating the rest of it… there’s no doubt in his mind, now that he’s looking at them, that they’re claw marks. They’re too numerous and too evenly spaced to be anything else. They should all be cleaned, just because of the infection risk – seawater isn’t sanitary to begin with, and who _knows_ what else siren claws have on them. 

When he’s done with that, he finally notices how pink the water has gotten. After a moment of mental debate, he drains and refills it. 

By the end of it he has no idea if he's done enough, _no_ idea what else to do, and he's covered in blood and dried saltwater. He _really_ needs a shower. 

… _Shit_. 

He slumps against a wall with a heavy sigh. In the grand scheme of things, it probably shouldn't be a huge concern - he just narrowly avoided getting torn to shreds and eaten, and now there's a _badly injured siren_ in his _bathroom_ , but... he's _really_ uncomfortable. Maybe he could run out quickly and talk Vivi into letting him use her shower. She'll definitely ask questions, but… 

In a moment of incredible connection, his brain draws a line between _Vivi_ and _siren_. Hadn't she told him before, about some older stories about sirens turning into humans to hunt? That would be... _very_ helpful right about now. If he was human, he could properly stitch and wrap the wounds, without having to worry about the water. 

From what Vivi had told him, it was usually a thing sirens did on their own, but there were charms and spells humans could use, too. And even if she couldn’t, it’d sure be nice to have someone who knew at least a _little_ bit about sirens beyond rumor and superstition. 

And even if she didn’t, another person to talk to would be nice. And hot water. 

He washes his hands, throws some clean clothes in a bag, and heads off, offering a mental apology to the siren for temporarily abandoning him. 

* * *

Lewis raps his knuckles against the door, and does his best to stand up straight and _not_ give off the energy of someone close to death. 

He’s well aware how he must look by this point. He’s spent enough time trying to shut out the smell of blood and seawater – neither especially pleasant on their own, and them together and combined with sweat makes for a just _miserable_ experience. He can feel his clothes getting stiff with the drying liquid, too, and when he looks down at himself his shirt is a mess of red stains. 

So with all that considered, it’s really admirable how Vivi manages to keep a straight face when she opens the door and takes in the sight in front of her. 

“Hi, Lewis!” she chirps, giving him a smile that’s only a little less cheerful than normal. “Something happen?” 

_What do you think_ , he responds dryly in his head. “Yeah. Ah, I can explain in a minute, but do you mind if I use your shower first?” 

Her eyes flick briefly over him. “Sure! Uh, none of that’s _yours_ , right?” 

He mirrors her gaze, looking down at his clothes. “Oh! Oh, no, _I’m_ fine. This is from… something else.” 

For a second she purses her lips, giving him a look that manages to communicate _you know how all this looks, right?_ But then she smiles and shrugs, and steps aside, gesturing behind her. “Then yeah, go nuts. Just try to, I dunno, clean up after yourself?” 

He gives her a thumbs-up and heads for the shower. 

Pulling off the sticky clothes and getting under the hot water feels _good_. He tries not to spend too long in there, but he really hadn’t realized how _tired_ he is until now. It’s been a long few hours. That did start with him almost drowning. 

Oh, _right_ , that happened. He’d almost forgotten, with everything that came after it. But this whole thing started because he fell in the water and blacked out. 

Actually, how _did_ he survive that? Escaping the siren company he more or less understands – the injured one got him away from them and back to the shore. But _drowning_ isn’t something that can be fought. Was it… some kind of magic? 

The thought that the siren had cast a _spell_ on him is… strange. He can’t help but wonder if it didn’t do anything _else_. 

He files it under “things to ask about,” and sets it aside for now. 

When he gets out of the shower – blissfully clean and wearing comfortable, not-water-stiff clothes – Vivi’s already sitting at the table with a mug of tea and a book. She puts it away when she sees him, and waves him over. He sits down and folds his arms on the table, making a conscious effort not to slump forward. 

“So, you said you’d explain?” 

“Yeah. So. How much do you know about sirens? It’s something, right?” 

She blinks, and he can see her trying to filter down the information in her brain to things that are actually immediately relevant. “Um… they’re evolved to prey on humans and fish… they’re strong and vicious, and they’ve got hypnotic voices. They’re dangerous, especially for boat fisherman. Wait- were you _attacked?”_

“No! Well- yes. But I’m not… _hurt_.” 

“So you were attacked by a siren, and you were covered in blood, but you’re _not_ hurt.” 

“No. It’s not my blood.” 

Her expression is steadily getting more confused and skeptical, but all she says is, “then what _happened?”_

He takes a deep breath and starts from the beginning – going over the freak storm, the company, waking up on the beach with the siren, coming to the conclusion that he was rescued, and finally carrying him to safety. Vivi’s remarkably quiet through the whole thing, aside from occasionally interjecting with questions. Once again he’s amazed by how high a tolerance she has for things like this – if their positions were reversed, he’d have panicked the second she said _siren_. 

“So… now what are you going to do?” 

He exhales slowly, resting his face in his hands. “I don’t know. I was hoping maybe you could… I don’t _know_ , I’m just- worried.” 

“About the _siren?_ He’s gonna be fine, they can survive _way_ more thank you think! If I were you, I’d be more worried about getting attacked in my sleep.” 

“I’m not so sure. It’s just- you haven’t _seen him!_ I _know_ they’re sturdy, but it’s… he’s already lost a _lot_ of blood, and if I can’t properly treat the wounds, I… I don’t know if he’s gonna make it.” 

“And you can’t treat them because…” 

“It’s mostly the tub. There’s no good way for me to lay him out to properly clean or stitch or – _anything_. I thought maybe- you could- if he were _human…_ ” 

“They can do that on their own! And it’s… probably not a great idea to transform him without asking.” 

“I know! But…” It was a concern he’d been trying to avoid, but… "…what if he doesn’t wake up again?” 

She considers him for a moment, and then sighs and puts her hands together. “…Okay, _look_. If you do this, and then he wakes up and he’s pissed about it and you’ve given him _legs_ to come _attack you on_ … I don’t take responsibility.” 

“I accept that.” 

“Fine. Give me a second.” 

She returns with a pendant. A pearl wrapped in wire, strung on a long chain. She holds it out to him. “Here. This should do it.” 

He takes it, letting it hang off his hand, and studies it curiously. “Just this? Really?” 

“Yeah. At least, from what I’ve been told, it should work? Something of the sea, enclosed in something of the land, and enchanted to tie them together.” She leans over the table. “And, as your… uh, magic-items doctor, I have to advise you that this is _last resort,_ or if you actually get permission. It-“ 

“I know, I know!” All the lecturing is going to make him even more nervous than he already is, about everything. “Can… _should_ I ask why you just… have this?” 

“Studying,” she says, intentionally vague. 

“…right. Well- thanks. Seriously.” He stands, folding it into his hand. “Hopefully I’ll just give it right back to you without needing to use it at all.” 

“Good luck!” she says with a smile as he leaves, but there’s an air of _and try not to die!_ behind it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur thinks he might regret saving the human, considering everything that happened to him after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for emetophobia & description of being injured & dehydrated, arthur is having a Bad Time  
> edit: SON OF A BITCH MY ITALICS

He notices the storm first, because everything around him goes grey and he feels the water start to rock as the wind pushes waves over the surface. There’s the tingle of static around him, which means this isn’t natural. There must be a hunting company out somewhere near here.

He turns to look for them, and that’s when he sees the boat, a little bit down the current from him. Sure enough, there’s a group of spear-carriers waiting just under it, but there’s a good bit of debris between them and they haven’t noticed him yet. He drifts down a little further towards the seabed, staying hidden. The hunters just swarm the boat, knocking it and laughing, waiting patiently for the human inside to fall. Playing with their food. He shudders.

The gathering storm is growing worse, the force from the waves pushing further and further underwater, and then the human goes overboard, clinging to the nets as if that’ll save him. He loses his grip and the company shifts a little, allowing him to fall to their level.

He doesn’t even bother trying to fight – maybe the song hypnotizes him too quickly. He goes still in the water, and the hunters start to advance and spread out, surrounding him.

Arthur isn't entirely sure what makes him swim forwards. All he knows is that one moment he’s thinking that this isn’t _fair_ , not when the human can’t even fight _back_ , that he doesn’t want to watch it happen – and then his tail’s swishing, pumping him forwards, and he’s between the human and the sirens so quickly they recoil in surprise.

He curves his tail loosely around the human, and presses a charm to the his lips, to keep him from drowning.

The moment of distraction costs him, though, and a hunting spear catches him in the stomach as he’s turning around. He makes an involuntary snarl and recoils. The barbs carved into it do their job, tearing sideways through his skin and the muscle underneath. The rest of the company moves for his tail, but he weaves around most of the spears, until one of them snags his tail at the tip and his momentum rips through it.

Both wounds throb with pain, almost disorienting him, but he forces himself to push past it. He steels himself and, in one deft movement, weaves his tail around the human and then snags that fabric on his chest with his claws, tearing through it to get a proper grip. He drags him along as he swims for the shore.

The company reaches for them, crying things about _thief_ and _that’s_ **_our_** _prey, you little shit!_ Several sets of claws dig into his tail at different points, one reaching up to his shoulder and back, and all of them sting and tear further as he pulls away from them and they’re forcibly ripped off. He can’t think clearly, the pain is _radiating_ through every part of him, but he still knows where the shore is, so he latches onto that knowledge and _swims._

They’re giving chase, but though they’re stronger and better hunters and all of them have a voice to fight with, in the one area he needs now he’s finally better. Years of this song and dance have made him _fast_.

The adrenaline pumping through his blood is starting to wear off by the time he reaches shore, but he still finds the strength to drag himself out of the ocean and haul the human onto dry land before collapsing. His vision goes dark for a moment, the world spinning. Gravity pulls his whole body down without water to cushion him. The whole length of his tail still stings, especially where it’s lying on the sand, and the tip of it still throbs. It’s not _nearly_ as bad as the large hole in his stomach, though, which makes him want to curl up and never get up again.

Instead he forces himself up onto his arm. First he looks down – and, yep, he wasn’t exaggerating, it really is _that_ bad. There’s already a large patch of blood on the sand, and smeared on his arm where he folded it across the wound. The sight makes him feel sick. He looks away from _that_ and over to the human, while he’s unconscious and his gaze won’t hurt him.

_He_ looks okay, at least. He’s still breathing, and Arthur can tell that the charm held and he’s going to be okay. His head’s caught in a current and the nausea won’t go away, so he looks back down at the sand and focuses on breathing.

For a while he just drifts, everything blurring together, and then he hears singing.

It’s almost inaudible at first, making him think – _hope –_ he was imagining it, but when he looks up, he can see them weaving through the water. Bastards. They tracked him – of _course_ they did, with the trail of blood he must have left in the water. They know he can’t escape, so they’re drawing it out on purpose. Already they’re laughing at him.

He feels the human stir behind him, and the song starts to shift to a hypnosis.

If they think they can take this human back with a bit of song after _this-_ he takes a deep breath, reaching for all the strength he has, and responds with a call of his own. It isn’t anything near a proper song, and it doesn’t carry any intent, but at least he forces it loud enough to reach them, and the harsh, discordant noise snaps their spell like a knife through string. He resists the urge to follow it with coughing, swallowing hard instead.

They start laughing again, but they aren’t approaching. _He’s_ a joke, but none of them want to get closer to that unnatural, broken voice.

He shifts to look at the human, and finds him upright, staring at him. His eyes draw his attention. Human eyes are always off-putting, so devoid of intent without magic, but he still looks wide-eyed with worry…

Belatedly he realizes how still the human has gone, and what he’s doing, and quickly averts his gaze. It’s getting dark around the edges.

He doesn’t want to hurt him. He isn’t a _threat_. He just needs him to _understand that_ \- hoping that gestures, at least, will carry across, he forces his hand to raise and points at himself and then slashes a hand through the air. The human doesn’t respond – of course not, that was _nonsense_ , he scolds his foggy mind – so he adds a motion of attack to it, the second time.

The human says something, and he hopes it’s understanding, because he _has_ to put his hand down now. The shift in weight puts too much strain on the cut in his stomach. The nausea is rising again, and it’s making his whole body feel cold and stiff. The company is singing threats – reminding him that he’s too badly injured to run, promising to do _even worse_ to him once he gives in to the wounds and passes out – but he can barely pay attention to them. He finally heaves, and it tastes like metal.

In front of him, the human speaks. He doesn’t pay it much mind until he feels something touch his shoulder, and he tries to lunge backwards. The movement feels much harder than it should have been, and leaves him exhausted.

He _thinks_ the human must be speaking, because his lips are moving, but he can’t hear it over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. With his last thought, he desperately hopes he’ll be understanding, and then his arm buckles and everything goes dark.

* * *

Arthur wakes up aching and cramped and uncomfortable. His skin is cold and every breath rattles his chest, and his muscles are sore with the strain that comes with sleeping in a weird position without water to cushion you. Being half-asleep has dulled the pain from his wounds, but with every breath it gets sharper. His head is pounding, slow and fuzzy, and his throat is so dry it burns. He’s above the water, he finally deduces – and must have been for a while.

_Of course_ , a thought fights its way through his head, _you were on the beach when you passed out_. But– now, he definitely _isn’t_. He’s lying against something smooth and cold, enough to make him shiver with every breath, and behind his eyelids he can tell it’s dark. He… he collapsed right in front of the human, he _could_ have taken him somewhere else-

As soon as he thinks through that, his eyes open and he tries to sit up – but almost immediately he’s doubled over, arm folded across his stomach, as the act of tensing his muscles sends a stab of pain through the still-open wound. He can’t help shivering, and bile rises in the back of his throat, the world growing distant as his head spins in the darkness. He leans to the side – his hand finds something stable – and vomits. His throat burns even _worse_ now, and everything’s gotten even colder.

It takes a moment for the buzzing in his head to clear and him to force his eyes open again – it takes a few blinks to get them to stay open, and even then they’re dry and heavy. The open air is uncomfortable, at once oppressive and too exposed. He’s _acutely_ aware of every stinging cut down the length of his tail, and the dull pain of the spear-wound at the tip. His whole body is wracked with feverish chills – another alarm bell, that he’s losing blood and has been above water for _far_ too long and he needs to get somewhere _safe_.

Except he can already tell he’s trapped. He’s backed into a corner in some sort of human structure, hard-edged and made of materials he doesn’t recognize. There’s a way out across the tiny space that seems to just lead to more cramped corridors, not that he could reach it if he wanted to. He’s been shoved into an even smaller space, some kind of basin that doesn’t even hold his full tail. There’s a little water at the bottom of it. It feels almost like a taunt – it’s so _close_ , but not enough to actually submerge himself in, and if he wanted to reach it he’d have to fold himself up in a way that would _definitely_ put more strain on his injuries.

He looks down at his chest, and notices yet another thing he doesn’t understand. The gash on his stomach has been carefully wrapped in – he tests it with a claw to confirm – a narrow strip of the same sort of cloth as humans use to dress themselves. Looking up, he notes that a lot of his deeper wounds have been wrapped in the same way. It must have taken a lot of care to do it, especially in a way that would make sure it stayed on, but… it _itches_ , and it’s uncomfortably warm. His stomach most of all. Did the human do this? _Why?_ Is it courtesy not to show your wounds? Will he be upset with him if he takes it off?

He can’t risk it. Not when he’s trapped and entirely at his mercy. Now that he’s noticed it, he can’t stop thinking of the itch, but he forces himself not to tear them off. He carefully loosens them with a claw instead, curling up a little tighter with a shaky hiss when it pulls at the wound. But now it’s exposed to the air as well, and that’s almost _worse_. If he were _underwater_ , it’d be okay, but the slightest movement drags air against the exposed muscle, and it _itches_.

Arm shaking, he slowly lowers himself down. It’s hard and the motion hurts and he ends up in an even more cramped position, but _fuck it_ , he can properly dip the gash in _water_ , even if it’s stagnant and bloody. He lets out a cracked groan, half in pain and half in relief.

After a while he shifts again, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position. The walls of this basin are too hard and curve too sharply to lean against comfortably. He tries to drape himself over them, which would work if it didn’t pull at his stomach. In the end he winds up leaning at an angle in the corner of the basin. It makes the cuts on his shoulder throb with the pressure he’s putting on them, but it’s the best he can figure out right now, and moving is getting exhausting.

He wants to sleep but his body won’t even allow him _that_. For a while he just drifts in a half-awake delirium, trying his best to shut out all the warning signals he’s getting.

Then a sound rings out, amplified by the lack of water, and he startles, forgetting where he is and instinctively trying to recoil and splash back into the water. All he manages to do is bang the back of his head on the wall behind him, slamming to a halt his already sluggish brain. It takes a while to start working again, struggling to parse the sounds he’s hearing – and then he recognizes a human voice.

He shrinks back into the basin as they get louder. Maybe if he’s quiet and doesn’t move, they’ll leave him alone.

No such luck. In walks a human that looks familiar… it’s the one he _saved_. So _this_ is the thanks he gets for… Can he see him shaking? Does he know how hurt he is? Why is he _doing_ this? He _must_ be working with a company of his own, that decided to capture him and take him away.

He’s talking to him now, kneeling in front of the basin with one hand half-raised. It’s hard to stay upright and keep his eyes open, when everything feels heavy and the anxiety of being _trapped_ is weighing on his chest- but he resists, and does his best to focus on him. His expression is so… _innocent_ , somewhere between confusion and… _worry_? He keeps talking like he doesn’t realize he can’t understand him.

It isn’t long before he turns and seems to say something directed elsewhere- and then he stands and gives one final glance to him, holding a hand out as though in reassurance.

He’s gone for a little while, and when he returns it’s carrying something. He kneels and shows it to him. Simple pictures… siren, arrow, human. They… _oh_. They must want him to… turn human. He weakly shakes his head at him. His response is just to point to the picture again and say something.

The last of his strength drains out of him, and he all but falls forward, leaning on the edge of the basin to steady himself. He can’t. Don’t they understand that he _can’t?_ He’s heard his voice – but, wait, maybe he thinks that was on _purpose?_

Resigned, he opens his mouth to demonstrate the problem. The human flinches a little when the fangs are bared – and then relaxes when he understands what he’s doing. It takes him a moment to examine the inside of his mouth, and then he makes a soft noise of recognition. He raises one hand hesitantly. To do what, Arthur isn’t sure.

He closes his mouth and shifts back slightly, and makes a sound that comes out as a rasp and a sharp whine, just to further prove his point. No voice, no magic, no changing form. Even humans must understand _that_.

The human looks frustrated for a moment, then turns back down to his drawings and fusses with them for a moment. He seems to give up on whatever he’s doing and sets it aside, and then just points to himself and then Arthur.

_What_ does that mean.

He looks down again, and then picks up a new object and holds it out at him.

He blinks at it, taking a moment to parse what he’s seeing. It’s… magic. Contained within a small object on a string, instead of something living. A transformation spell.

_Oh_. He’s saying _he_ can do it _for_ him.

Frustration rises in his chest. Then _why ask in the first place?_ Just to _rub it in? Ha-ha, look, a human can do your own magic better than you, stupid worthless siren-_

Or- his expression was still so honest, was he… _asking permission?_

He’s still sitting there – _waiting?_ – so Arthur takes a shot in the dark and nods, dipping his head forward a little further. The tiny object on the string is slipped around his head.

Maybe it’s the strain of transforming, or maybe he just can’t hold on anymore. Either way, he falls unconscious almost as soon as it begins.


End file.
